two recent reviews of World's End, (ARP Books, 2023)

Reviews! I'm constantly complaining that my work doesn't see critical response, but my latest, World's End, (ARP Books, 2023), has already two! Thanks much to both Wanda Praamsma and Billy Mills! And did you see the one-question interview Hollay Ghadery did with me recently on the book as well, over at River Street Writing? Obviously, copies of the new book are available via those fine folk at ARP Books in Winnipeg, but I have a box or two here, if anyone is so inclined. A similar deal to some of my most recent titles: send $18 (via email or paypal to rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com) ; obviously adding $5 for postage for Canadian orders; for orders to the United States, add $11 (for anything beyond that, send me an email and we can figure out postage); for current above/ground press subscribers, I’m basically already mailing you envelopes regularly, so I would only charge Canadians $3 for postage, and Americans $6 (that make sense?)

Here's the first review of the book, kindly written by Kingston poet Wanda Praamsma as part of a group review (alongside Sandra Ridley's latest, etc) via the Toronto Star! See the original review here.

World’s End
by rob mclennan
ARP Books, 64 pages, $18

These poems take on the quality of measured breath — inhale inhale pause, exhale. Inhale, and exhale. In so doing, they slow us down, a necessary and welcome step for all, but particularly needed while moving through the births of children and their early years, as mclennan is/was. “A circle of latitude, this/rushing force/of birth; of hours. … Days fold, moments. Into/collapse, and/still.,” he writes in “The small return.” mclennan applies beginner’s mind — the ability to address everything anew — to every poem and fragment; he appears a Zen master through his meditative sequencing, though not unruffle-able to the trials. “Oh, you are stupid, death./You’re drunk; go home.” Intertwined are mclennan’s welcome lessons on process and form (“Attempt to see if sentences can breathe, take root, grow limbs.”) and the abundance of clarity gleaned from small children: “I later gift the toddler a small/plastic robot. She names it: robot.” No need to overcomplicate. These poems send that message: Simplify, breathe, look around.

Here's UK poet Billy Mills, who posted this on his blog, as part of a group review (see the original post here):

The Worlds End of rob mclennan’s title is, we are told in an epigraph, is a ‘pub on the outskirts of a town, especially if on or beyond the protective city wall’; a space that is both convivial and liminal and a tone-setter for the book.

As a poet, editor, publisher and blogger, mclennan is a key figure in a world of poets, and this community is reflected in the fact that most of the poems that make up this book have individual epigraphs from writers, the regulars in the World’s End. A sense of poetry as being intrinsic to the world weaves through the book right from the opening section, ‘A Glossary of Musical Terms’:

The Key of S

Hymn, antiphonal. Response, response. A trace of fruit-flies, wind. And from this lyric, amplified. This earth. Project, bond. So we might see. Easy. Poem, poem, tumble. Sea, to see. Divergent, sky. Deer, a drop of wax. Design, a slip-track.

This melding of the natural and domestic worlds (hinted at by the slip-track) with the world of poetry and language is characteristic of mclennan’s work here, with frequent pivots on words that can be read as noun or verb (project). The carefully disrupted syntax calls out the sense of observing from the margins. This can lend a sense of Zen-like simple complexity, a tendency towards silence:

Present, present, present. Nothing in particular.

In the poems in verse, this disruption is often counterpointed by deft assonances:

A gesture: colour match.

Describe, describe. Sarcophagi. Small bite marks
perforate the humerus.

[from ‘Cervantes’ Bones’]

The second aspect of convivial community is family and parenting; the book overflows with babies and toddlers:

Toddler’s outstretched arms,
convinced herself bigger

than she still is, asks: Let me
hold her. Two ducks,

three. The western shoal,

swift curl of seagull, her
newborn deep

and impenetrable.
The contours

of a shapeless day.

Their mother, relieved
she finally out.

[from ‘Two ghazals, for newborn’]

As the book progresses, these themes become more closely interwoven, a process that comes to a head in the penultimate section, ‘mmm’ (the final one is just two pages long, so effectively at the end of the book):

We. Are turning a boundary.

Shush. Shush. Be quiet. Shush. Restrain. Restraint. Abate. Or don’t. Could never. Can’t. I couldn’t. Please. I beg you. Silence, or.

Begat, begat. This is a copy of a document held by the Office of the Registrar General. Begat, begat. Ceaselessly exposed, and hollow. Cyclical, ends. This grown head strikes a ceiling.

Until a separation, there can be no relation. Is this true?

Parthenogenesis. Maternal instinct, strikes. If you the only one. Trade for passage, ours. Delighted. Like it was the day before the day before. Slips through the fingers.

Former mother. Birth. My wrong grammar implicates.

It’s a quietly powerful conclusion to a book that benefits from, and fully merits, careful rereading. At the start of this review, I listed some of mclennan’s many roles in the world of poetry. Let there be no doubt, the primary one is poet.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Hollay Ghadery

Hollay Ghadery is a writer living in small town Ontario. Her fiction, non-fiction and poetry has been published in various literary journals, including The Malahat Review, Room, CAROUSEL, The Antigonish Review, Grain and The Fiddlehead. In 2004, she graduated from Queen's University with her BAH in English Literature, and in 2007, she graduated from the University of Guelph with her Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. She is the recipient of the Constance Rooke Scholarship in Creative Writing, as well as Ontario Arts Council grants for her poetry and non-fiction. Fuse—a mosaic of personal essays on mixed-race identity and mental illness—was published by Guernica Editions MiroLand imprint in May 2021.

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

Fuse made me more confident but also, quieter in many ways. I don't feel the need to prove myself as much, now that I've written something so intensely (and what some readers have called "uncomfortably") personal. Before writing Fuse, I was grappling with a lot of half-formed or misformed ideas about who I was and what I stood for. I have a better—albeit still evolving—idea of all that now. 

Prior to Fuse, I'd only written poetry and a little fiction, so this was a huge step outside my comfort zone. It's a raw experience; the book's existence in the world leaves me feeling vulnerable, because now just about anyone can read about some of the worst and most personally transformative moments in my life. But, as I said, I also feel more confident than I ever have. Even if people don't like or don't get what I write about, I know that it took a lot to say it and I know that it is resonating with a great many people, and that connection—having people contact me to say they cried reading Fuse because they felt understood and seen and so much less alone—that is a whole other kind of rewarding. Rewarding in a way praise for a poem or piece of fiction has never been. 

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or nonfiction?

Poetry is language distilled to sense and sense distilled to essence, and for better or worse, my senses have always operated in overdrive. So, poetry felt more natural and as I result, I've written and published a lot more of it, piece for piece.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

I'm quick to start any writing process after a whole lot of reading and note taking. That process of gathering wool—the passive writing process—takes about as much time as the active writing. But once I sit down to write, everything comes fairly quickly. As quickly as my life/schedule allows.

4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

My work usually comes from a feeling; a sense that something is wrong or right or sad or beautiful or whatever. It's all very abstract at first. Annoyingly so, because then I have to try to pull out the story or sentiment behind this feeling. 

But ultimately, it's the feeling I want to capture. In the case of Fuse, it came from feeling helpless and frustrated; not just about my own life, but helpless and frustrated that nothing was changing in the world, either, because no one was saying anything. I wanted to say something.

With poetry, each poem exists for itself and not a bigger piece, but usually, I have a common theme I am working my way through. 

With personal essays and fiction, I often have a book in mind. 

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I understand readings can be beneficial and I don't mind doing them, but they are not my strong suit so I do not enjoy them as much as I perhaps might if I were a better reader. This is why I am so immensely grateful for everyone who comes to my readings anyway. 

My inner critic is often reading over my shoulder and it makes me ramble-y and self-conscious. However, this will not stop me from doing readings and trying to get out of my own way. But I truly doubt I will ever be one of those amazing readers. George Elliott Clarke comes immediately to mind. 

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

I'm always interested in identity and rebellion. Especially now, when there is so much to fight against—climate change, social injustice, willful ignorance, etc. How do our identities fuel the things we choose to rebel against and why? I am working on a project now where I consider answers to these questions. 

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Probably sounds hokey, but I think the role of the writer is to make the world a better place. This can be achieved in millions of different ways that will resonate differently with millions of different people. 

Thankfully, there are millions of different writers.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

I've always found working with an outside editor to be wonderful, necessary experience. Maybe I've just been lucky, but every editor I've had the fortune of working with has asked all the right questions and made my work better.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Read, and read widely. 

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to non-fiction to reviews)? What do you see as the appeal?

I find it fairly easy. The appeal for me is that certain ideas I have are better explored by different genres. For example, when I am trying to wrangle my thoughts about the big questions (our role in the universe and impotence in the cosmic scheme of things), I find form poetry (sestinas, pantoums, haiku, ghazals) useful because they provide this lovely, predictable framework. I have something to hold onto as I begin. 

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

I start my day with movement: running, weight lifting, mobility training, etc. Whatever my body craves. It helps clear out my mind and burns through some nervous energy so I can better sit still long enough to write. It’s the best way I have of managing my OCD. 

Then, because I write professionally for clients, I either get to my work for them or, if I've cleared enough time to do my own work, I dive into that. I typically stop when the kids get home from my parents' house, if they are there. If they are with me schooling for the day (they're homeschooled, due to COVID), I work nights, weekends, or stolen moments of calm in the afternoon. Mornings are always too busy.  

Regardless, the day starts with movement.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

I read. Not necessarily in the genre I am writing, but I read something, anything, I love, which means I'll often reread something I already know I love.

I also move. Walking therapy is always breakthrough, so I head out with a pen and piece of paper in my pocket and put one foot in front of another until things start to fall into place. 

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Woodsmoke, lilac and apple turnovers—all at once.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Nature plays a huge influence in my work, living in the country and having spent much time in nature as a child. Astronomy is also sneaking it's way in more than I realized: that crushing weight of the universe and all.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

I love Lucy Maud Montgomery—her journals, specifically. They make me feel less alone in my struggles with mental illness and I find it fascinating to see how what she wrote--all that hope--was so different from how she actually felt about her life. I can relate to that: creating worlds that are signposts for the one in which we live. 

I also love fairytales (though I don't write them), romance novels (though I don't write them either), poetry of all sorts and creative non-fiction. Really, as I write this list, I realize every sort of writing can be inspiration for me. 

I just finished reading a coffee table book on the history of machines and was riveted. I am taking a keen interest in translations recently, thanks to the astounding work of Khashayar Mohammadi, and am enraptured by this nuanced art form. 

All this is to say that a variety of writing is important for my work and my well-being in general. I have four children who I'd die for without a second thought, but I can envision a possible life in which I am not a mother. I cannot picture a possible life in which I am not a reader and writer.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Publish a full-length book of poetry. 

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

Tough, because I can’t picture myself as anything else. However, if I had to pick something, I think it would be law: environmental or human rights. It would have to be a profession that made the world better in a really direct way. 

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I couldn't think of another way to be happy. Flannery O'Connor said, "I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say" and that pretty much sums it up for me. Writing is my way of making sense of myself and my world. 

Having my particular mental illness means that my mind is often frantic—experiencing sensory overload—writing slows me down enough to make sense of what's going on. 

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

The last great book I read was the last book I finished reading (I’ve finally allowed myself to just not finish books if I am not enjoying them): Walking Leonard and Other Stories by Sophie Stocking (Guernica Editions, 2021). I'm attempting some short stories and found that on the levels of craft as well as pure enjoyment, this collection was exceptional. I loved the way Stocking honed in on the details of everyday life and showed how the quotidian decisions are the ones that often have the biggest impact. 

I'm going to reread it just to take notes. Plot development is not my strong point, which it doesn't need to be for all short stories but it should not be as underdeveloped as mine. 

The last great film was the Iranian movie, The Colour of Paradise (1999) directed by Majid Majidi. It's so gorgeous and heartbreaking. 

20 - What are you currently working on?

A couple things: I have a collection of poems (free verse and form) about rebellion that's kinda, sorta done (ready to be seen at least) and then a collection of short stories about fantasies (like, the everyday sort of fantasies we have about running away with the circus, not the fantasy genre). 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;